He'd been standing next to Ducky, letting him ramble about time of death and the
ambient temperature, letting the kids do their jobs, when he'd heard it.

To his dying day he would swear he'd heard the bullet whiz past him and tear
into Ducky.

It'd all happened so quickly. One second Ducky was smiling at him, telling him
without words how much he loved him; the next he was on the ground, eyes open,
the bullet lodged in his heart. The bullet that in one second took Ducky away
from him. Took the best part of his life away from him. Took the person who
completed him away from him. Took the man he loved without reservation away from
him.

He'd frozen; as Ducky had gasped and fallen to the ground, he'd frozen. He'd
liked to have been able to tell himself it was because he'd been looking for the
shooter. But he hadn't. He'd just frozen, unable to move, unable to even say
Ducky's name.

A second after Ducky hit the ground, Palmer was by Ducky's side. Palmer was
snapping orders at him. Palmer was telling him to call nine-one-one. Palmer was
trying to resuscitate Ducky. Palmer had his mouth on Ducky's. Palmer switched to
trying to compress Ducky's chest. Palmer, Jimmy Palmer who so often seemed
bumbling, uncertain, and always afraid of him, was in charge.

And Palmer did his best. He tried so hard. He went on trying after DiNozzo and
McGee captured the shooter. He went on trying until the ambulance screamed its
arrival. He went on trying until the paramedics took over from him. Then he
stood, his hands wet with Ducky's blood, his face streaked with the same blood,
breathing heavily, never once taking his gaze from his boss and mentor.

And Palmer had pushed him into the ambulance. And Palmer's eyes told him it was
fruitless. Ducky was dead. Ducky had been taken from him. Ducky was dead. He was
alive. And his life was in chaos.

The single most devastating thing to have happened to him since Shannon and
Kelly had died had happened four months ago. And it still felt as if it were
only yesterday. He hadn't spoken of his feelings. He hadn't spoken of how much
he was hurting. Not even when one by one the kids had tried to talk to him. Not
even when Vance had ordered him to take a few days off. He hadn't spoken about
Ducky.

He didn't mention Ducky's name. He couldn't. It hurt far too much. Besides, he'd
never been one for words. He showed rather than told. So he cried for Ducky,
alone in the vast emptiness of the house in Reston they'd shared, alone apart
from the whiskey bottle, he'd cried. His tears were words he couldn't say.

The only person he'd even come close to speaking about Ducky to, was Fornell.
But in the end, even with his second oldest and closest friend he couldn't find
the words. So instead he'd let Fornell hold him while he cried. He had vague
memories of Fornell putting him to bed and sitting with him until he'd fallen
asleep. Of maybe kissing his forehead, gently, with affection, before leaving.
They'd never spoken of it. And he'd never cried in front of Fornell again. He
kept his tears for himself. He grieved alone. He let his tears speak for him.

When he'd received the news of Shannon and Kelly's deaths, he'd sat for several
minutes with his gun pointing towards him, seriously considering pulling the
trigger. Alone, in Reston House, more than once after Ducky's death, he'd done
the same thing. But just as he couldn't do it over his girls; he couldn't do it
over Ducky.

It wasn't that he didn't want to; he did. He didn't want to go on living without
Ducky.

It wasn't that he knew Ducky wouldn't want him to; he wouldn't. But he'd
understand.

It wasn't that he felt he had anything, anyone, left to live for; he hadn't. The
kids had their own lives; Fornell had Emily. No one needed him.

It wasn't that he didn't have the courage; he had. But he also had the courage
to remain alive.

And that's what he did.

It cost him. Getting out of bed, getting ready for work, driving to the office,
all cost him dearly. Some days the effort seemed overwhelming. Eating and
drinking was something he did because he knew he had to. Talking to people,
interacting with them, exhausted him. But he did those things. Day after day,
one day at a time, he did them.

The one thing he couldn't do was to go down to Autopsy. Instead he sent DiNozzo
or McGee or Ziva or all three. And if Palmer had something to tell him, Palmer
would go up to the squad room.

His day was simple:

He woke up.

He showered.

He dressed.

He made coffee.

He made toast. Because Ducky would be angry with him if he didn't.

He drove to work.

He did his job.

He drove home.

He grabbed a carry-out. At least he did some nights. Others he made more toast.
Because Ducky would be angry with him if he didn't.

He had a drink or two.

He went to bed.

He slept.

And he did that seven days a week.

He still didn't talk about Ducky. He still cried over Ducky, albeit not quite so
much. Not quite as often.

And as the months went by he found it got a little easier. The hole Ducky had
left in his life wasn't filled, would never be filled. The grief he felt would
never go. He was existing, not living. But he was still alive.

'It gets easier'.

'Time heals'.

He wasn't sure of either. But he was still alive.

And he stayed that way until, two years after he'd heard the bullet that'd taken
Ducky from him, he heard the one that took his own life.